Point of Rest
by Lex
Summary: Sphinx made a great collage for this: http:www.geocities.comflint19492001MargueriteCollage.html?1082478550140


Point of Rest  
  
For Lady P. Roxton, artist – with many thanks!  
  
Rated R, for sexual content  
  
"'These (times) will be ... like a sort of watershed ... a barrier in our lives, over which we've had to struggle, and will always separate what we were from what we have become. Perhaps every life has to meet some such moment of truth, some point when direction and energy are all diverted into unforeseen channels and we are forced into becoming, if not new people, different people ... (Consider) the notion that events might sometimes be focused – like a burning glass – to a point where an inner and vital transmutation was inevitable.'" - Zemindar, by Valerie Fitzgerald  
  
"Her hair takes up entirely too much of the pillow," reflected Roxton. His hands, originally intending to brush some of Marguerite's tangled locks out of the way, instead lingered there, slowly entwining themselves in the dark curls. Ensnared. Like himself. And, as she instinctively pulled away from his grip, he was aware he had not the slightest desire to escape.  
  
He knew that she loved him long before she knew it. Marguerite may have been the consummate game player, but her hand, despite her confidence that she was holding all the cards, had begun to tremble slightly whenever Roxton had made a play, and, after two years on the plateau, he had finally compelled her to lay those cards on the table for him. He'd always been confident in his ability to eventually bring her around. The fact that she was not always gracious about his victory had, for the most part, amused Roxton, although her stubbornness occasionally frustrated him. But now, as he watched Marguerite, still asleep, turn away from him and move to the other side of the bed, he wondered if she ever resented his win, ever resented loving him. And, if so, did she even realize it? For the first time, Roxton's certainty in their ultimate mutual destiny faltered.  
  
Roxton himself would have liked to remain all night in the cozy "spoon" position that the pair often assumed after making love. He would hold Marguerite, her back pressed against his hard chest, his mouth against her hair, and his arm nestled securely under her breasts. Often, she would place her hand lightly over his, before they drowsed. But, Marguerite would not be asleep long before she inevitably squirmed free of his constraining arm. Knowing his independent Marguerite the way he did, Roxton had never been too surprised by this; indeed, he was gratified that she no longer found it necessary to make sure that they each woke up in their own room – she'd been embarrassed to admit their relationship to the others. Roxton was thrilled and optimistic when she had finally overcome her reticence, but now, suddenly, he wondered if her habit of ending up on her own side of the bed sprang from an unconscious reluctance to commit to him.  
  
He flopped over onto his back and sighed. John Roxton liked simple things: solidity, earthiness. Why the hell had he fallen for a woman as hard to pin down, as hard to define, as Marguerite? Before he loved her, but when he wanted her, he had told her she was a rarity: a woman made of fire and steel. That her fire had tempered her steel, made it stronger, only increased his determination to make her his. He wanted to drink her like cool water, breathe her in like the air, wear her like his own skin. He wanted her to keep.  
  
****************************  
  
As usual, Roxton was the first to awaken. Propping himself up on his elbow, he looked over at Marguerite. His dark eyes traveled the enticing curve of her back, and lingered over her hips, draped alluringly with the white sheet. He could feast forever on the sight of her, devour greedily her whole essence, with a hunger that would never be satisfied. She lay peacefully, on her left side, unsuspecting prey to the keen-eyed hunter beside her, and his gaze, tender with love, turned dangerous. The doubts that had plagued him the night before were overwhelmed by a ferocious appetite; he swallowed convulsively and slowly, slowly, taking care not to touch Marguerite's smooth skin, pushed the sheet to the foot of the bed. Roxton thirstily drank in the sinuous line of her hip and legs as he moved closer to her. His breathing had become ragged, harsh ... his mouth, dry. Sitting up, he reached out and ran his left hand along, and then lifted, her right leg; the fingers of his right hand skimmed lightly, teasingly, between her legs. Marguerite stirred in her sleep, murmured drowsily. He used the flat of his hand to press hard against her, and her hips rocked involuntarily at his touch. Roxton drew his hand back because it excited him to see how she strained to follow it, how she wanted him. Here, there could be no doubt. The force that surged between them was not bound by anything so mundane as future plans, could never be defined by anything so feeble as promises made with words, could not be contained by anything not approaching its vast, sweeping power. So he made sure of her in the way he knew to be undeniable, and drove into her with his fingers, feeling her inner muscles drag on him, feeling his heart pound and his breath catch, feeling any separation between them dashed to oblivion by the wild waves of a hammering need. Still half-asleep, Marguerite turned on his fingers, and clung to his shoulders – her anchor – and arched desperately against him; her hair was in his mouth, her body sliding like silk against his tingling skin, and so he slipped his fingers out of her and took her. She moaned into his open mouth and they fed on each other until they were both sated.  
  
Challenger's unannounced and enthusiastic entrance into the room was admittedly ill-timed ... but it could have been much worse. The scene that met his eyes was intimate – Roxton on his back, with Marguerite on top of him, lightly running her finger over his jaw and planting a kiss on his nose – but harmless. Still, the poor man gasped, and, averting his eyes, stammered a frantic apology, as Marguerite shrieked and dived under the sheet. "Get the hell out of here!" she commanded, from her hiding place beneath the bedding. Challenger, bright red, hid his eyes with his hand, and, attempting to fumble his way to the door, stumbled clumsily into a chest of drawers. It took all of Roxton's self-control to choke back his hearty laughter, but he managed at last to inquire solicitously of Challenger what he wanted. In lieu of a reply, the professor bolted unceremoniously out the door, leaving a mortified Marguerite and an amused Roxton behind. ********************************************************  
  
"Now, George ... "said Roxton, after he had washed, dressed, and sat down at the table, where all the others (except Marguerite) were gathered. "What was it that you wanted to tell me?"  
  
"Ah ... ah ... yes, well ... "Challenger looked discomforted. "I've been monitoring the weather conditions and the patterns of the winds. I've been able to chart certain trends ..." As he warmed to his subject, Challenger forgot about the morning's awkwardness, and began to speak rapidly and convincingly. He explained, in passionate detail, his methods of research and the nature of his experiments; he looked modestly down at his feet as he revealed how his skill and intelligence had enabled him to reach the conclusion that had caused him to eagerly burst into Roxton's bedroom earlier; he cleared his throat in a self-deprecating manner as he waited for the import of his speech to sink in. But Roxton looked baffled and Veronica was quiet; only Summerlee understood what they were being told.  
  
"You mean ... we can get home? The winds are finally right?" he said carefully.  
  
"Yes ... we have a small window of opportunity," affirmed Challenger. "If we can repair the balloon sufficiently, and my calculations are correct, we can go home."  
  
Marguerite, who, even without the prospect of facing up to an embarrassing situation, loved to recline luxuriously in bed, made no effort to accompany Roxton to the common room. Instead, she had watched him appreciatively as he dressed, snuggled in the comfortable bed, and, after he left the room, felt herself growing pleasantly drowsy again. She rubbed her face against the cool pillow, and closed her eyes.  
  
She could hear Challenger's voice from the other room. He was talking about a chance to go home. She knew what he was saying was important, should be holding her attention. After all, she had been focused on getting off the plateau for years – since the moment they realized they were stranded, in fact. She had reverently meditated on the vision of Harrod's, on the alluring confusion and hustle of London, and had begun countless utterances with "when we get home ..." The unrefined, crude beauty of the plateau had not touched her as deeply as it had the rest of the group; the incredible wonder of the living dinosaurs had not truly astounded her, not with the pure excitement that it had the others. Marguerite was clear on her goals. Clear as could be. The flood of imagined possibilities, the hopeful pictures of a happy, normal future, the stubborn, silly, tantalizing visions of a loving and passionate relationship with John Roxton ... she knew better than to waste time on such things ... such distractions. Especially since they could not possibly be her lot at home. Home. Where they all WANTED to go, where SHE wanted to go! Hadn't she been avid to return to London for all this time? Hadn't she been eager to resume the rapid pace of her complicated life, been hungry for the acute pressure of her business dealings, and missed the impersonal, safe relationships of her pre-Plateau life? Yes! Yes, absolutely.  
  
So why was she so disinterested in Challenger's news? Why did she have, as she drifted closer to slumber, the impression that she was actually attempting to shut out his words? Sleepily annoyed with herself, she tried to summon the excitement she knew she should feel, but she was oddly confused, and then the scented breeze (so different from the London air!) and the cool sheet draped deliciously against her naked skin lulled her to sleep. ************************************ Some time later, Marguerite woke with a start. Her heart was hammering, and she fancied she could still hear (a remnant of a vivid and disturbing dream) the last echo of a discordant clanging of many bells. She breathed deeply, and waited for the leftover nightmare to fade. But that didn't happen. The uneasy feeling stayed with her, and she realized the room was dark. Had she slept all day and into the night? No, it wasn't possible. Had one of the violent storms typical of the Plateau sprung up, its clouds blotting out the sun? She could not hear any rain, although a wild wind seemed to be blowing madly about outside. Yet, the air felt strangely cloying; it had an oppressive quality that made her nervous. It did not feel like the air she knew.  
  
Marguerite fought the nervousness growing inside her, and stood. The floor dipped crazily beneath her feet ... or had she stumbled? She wasn't sure. She bent, reached her shaking hand out to support herself on the bed ... but touched empty air ... a weirdly alien air ... and heard, to her horror, the jangling noise of the bells as they once more began to ring. A sob broke from her throat, and then ... "Roxton! Roxton!" Always, always before, he had come when she needed him, but now her voice only echoed around her, distorted and frantic; she clapped her hands over her ears to block out the unholy sound, and shut her eyes.  
  
She tried to gather her wits, tried to steel herself against her fright. She took a number of deep breaths. Marguerite often fought fear with anger; it was an effective technique, and she made use of it now. With her eyes still shut, she felt her outrage displace her panic, and howled, "I hate this Goddamn plateau! What do I have to put up with this time?" And then ... "I won't let you beat me!" Marguerite opened her eyes. The bells fell silent, and she straightened her shoulders and looked around her. There was nothing but darkness to see. She sensed nothing but a vast emptiness.  
  
Then ... out of the corner of her eye ... Marguerite glimpsed a fleeting stream of white, and felt a movement in the heavy, sluggish air as someone – or something – came close to her. "Who's there? Who's there," she cried, her voice shaky, and whirled around to face the entity.  
  
"Tsk, Marguerite ... do you give in to confusion so easily? I am disappointed, cherie. I taught to you take control of your situation, rather than let it control you. Have you forgotten?"  
  
Marguerite knew that reproachful, throaty voice ... she knew the fine-boned hand that caressed her cheek, that sensuous perfume that suddenly filled the air! And, slowly, forming in the awful blackness, the image of Adrienne Montclair took shape, and drew a trembling Marguerite into her long, pale arms, as the uneasy air swirled wildly around them. Gradually, Marguerite grew still, and she rested her head gratefully against her friend's shoulder. "Where am I?" she asked, at last. "Adrienne? Where am I?" But the body pressed against hers began to change, to harden, and to ripple underneath her touch, and the voice that answered her was not the voice of the Frenchwoman.  
  
"That, my dear, is entirely up to you," said Summerlee gently. He smiled soothingly at the wild look in Marguerite's eyes as she raised her head, and at her stammered exclamation of alarm. "It is you who must choose your path, my dear." The professor smiled kindly down at the bafflement on her face.  
  
"What?! What are talking about? What path? I don't understand," she cried angrily.  
  
"You have always known that you have the power to shape your future, Marguerite. You have built your life on that premise. Now – are you strong enough to RESHAPE it? You must choose your way, my dear."  
  
"I KNOW my way – I know what I want! I always have!"  
  
"Then, what's the problem, my dear?" Summerlee's image wavered, and vanished. Marguerite was alone once more. Before she could gather her rattled thoughts, however, she noticed a strange thing: the darkness seemed to be fading and, unfolding in front of her, a very high, dense hedge. At the same time, she became aware of an unsettling rustling noise, and she realized that it was the sound of myriad leafy walls, identical to the one she faced, growing rapidly in the increasing light. She felt the ground take on a new texture beneath her feet (now booted instead of bare – despite her state of undress in bed, she was relieved to realize she was now fully clothed); she looked down and saw she was standing on a rough path that led to an opening in the hedge. Automatically, she walked forward. Immediately upon passing through the opening, her way was blocked by another impenetrable wall of branches and leaves; the path continued to the right and to the left.  
  
Marguerite was in a maze.  
  
***************************** Hours – miserable hours! – later, Marguerite trudged wearily onward, blindly selecting her direction as paths branched, twisted, and doubled back. At first, she had been so furious at finding herself in this bizarre situation, at yet another unexpected and perilous turn of events that the plateau had thrown her way – God, how she hated this plateau! – that she'd hardly been struck by its oddness. She'd stomped off, cursing to herself: she'd managed to navigate the narrow alleys and tangled streets of the shady areas in cities all over the world, hadn't she?! She was NOT going to get lost in some stupid jungle garden! She was not!  
  
But she had.  
  
She'd gotten desperately, terrifyingly, overwhelmingly lost. Her initial efforts to mark her route had long since been abandoned; the strips of cloth from her skirt she'd tied to branches as markers appeared to have vanished. The hedges, the very land itself, seemed to shift unnervingly before her eyes, and the air vibrated with a humming sound that made her head ache. The light was unnatural; it had taken her some time to figure out why: the shadows were not where they should be. The sensation of being watched was unmistakable. Her nerves had grown more and more frayed and she had felt a wild panic creep in. She began to run frantically through the lanes of the hellish maze, careening from direction to direction. Now, attempting to continue straight ahead on the path, she bumped into a solidness that blocked the way. She discovered that she had been fooled by an unframed mirror hanging mysteriously in front of her; she was seeing only a reflection of from where she had come. Her last vestige of control shattered, and she screamed. And kept on screaming, until she crumpled, sobbing, in a heap on the ground.  
  
After a time, her sobs changed to sniffles, and Marguerite raised her head. "Oh, Roxton," she whimpered. "Where are you? Where are you? Get me out of here – oh, please, please ..." If only he were there! He would find the way for her, he would lead her in the right direction: she knew it! He would choose the right path for her!  
  
"That's so typical, Marguerite."  
  
Marguerite, startled, looked up. Veronica, disapproval plain on her face, stood, hands on hips, looking back at her. "What," Marguerite gasped, blinking at the sudden apparition.  
  
"It's just like you to let someone else do all the hard work. But, still, I'm surprised ... the one thing I never expected you to let anyone else do was choose your path for you."  
  
Marguerite sputtered, incredulous and indignant. Just as she was framing a retort, however, Veronica's image shimmered and blurred at the outlines, and then the blonde was gone. "God DAMN it!" Marguerite yelped in frustration. "I'm LOST, you idiot!" Suddenly, she frowned. She could have sworn she heard a voice she recognized whisper inside her aching head, "Are you lost? Are you really? Or do you just refuse to see?"  
  
"Challenger? So glad you could join me," she said facetiously to the figure seated improbably atop the hedge. She waited for him to speak, but he just stared at her with a familiar expression on his face – that expression that he often wore when he looked at Marguerite. It was a mix of avid curiosity, puzzlement, and the delighted interest of a scientist studying an intriguing specimen. Challenger cocked his head. He looked to be on the verge of pulling out a pad and taking notes. At last he muttered distractedly, "Fascinating ... fascinating."  
  
Marguerite had had enough. She was going to explode. "Challenger, what the hell is going on here?" She grabbed his leg and violently yanked him off the hedge.  
  
Unruffled, Challenger looked intently into her face. His eyes narrowed. "Marguerite ... I wonder ... I wonder just what makes you tick?" As she stared speechlessly at him, the scientist continued, "Who are you, really, Marguerite? Who ARE you?" At that, he vanished, but the intensity of his gaze stayed with her and his question resounded in her mind. "Who ARE you?"  
  
Marguerite stared at the place where Challenger had been. What was he talking about? "I swear, that man is off in his own little world half the time ..."  
  
And then ... suddenly, she knew. She knew. The cryptic words of Adrienne, Summerlee, Veronica, and Challenger suddenly fit together, and made sense. Her panic disappeared and her headache did, too. She threw her head back and laughed in relief and in chagrin; she had known for a long time, now. How could she ever have thought herself lost? Her way was clear, startlingly clear; it had been so for some time, if only she'd recognized it. But, now ... oh, now ... she knew. No remnant of doubt remained in her heart or her mind. As the air cleared and the maze withered around her, Marguerite set her booted foot firmly upon the path that unrolled easily before her, and took a confident step toward her future.  
  
************************* Roxton had her breakfast coffee ready and waiting. 


End file.
